


By the Pricking of my Thumbs

by JoansGlove



Series: Hierarchy-Slow Dance Crossover [3]
Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-02-04 16:29:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18608260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoansGlove/pseuds/JoansGlove
Summary: What are dreams anyway? A jumble of memories, a glimpse of the future? Maybe just a tangle of wishful thinking - whatever, they're powerful things if you give them agency.





	By the Pricking of my Thumbs

**Author's Note:**

> No matter how much I protest, I can't seem to stay away from Joan and Vera so here is a quickie that came to me late the other night.
> 
> As ever, with thanks to Duchess x

The straggling garden closed in around her like a carnivorous cage, overgrown stems of sickly yellow and brown snagging viciously at her hair and her uniform as she strode up the cracked and broken path and knocked on the peeling front door. She felt a smile of smug satisfaction settle on her face as, picking at a loose flake of fading paint, she deliberately tore a long strip from the rotting wood and let it flutter absently from her fingers.

 

She knocked again, sharp percussive raps echoing inside the house as the predatory vegetation rustled ominously behind her. A faint shadow appeared at the end of the hallway and Joan's pulse quickened as it reached the door and she heard the sound of the latch. With a creak worthy of any horror movie, the door swung inwards and Vera stood before her, every inch the glowing mother-to-be in her maternity smock and glossy chestnut curls.

A strange, subdued longing made Joan’s chest ache, but the look of bitter hatred in Vera's wide, blue eyes as she slammed the door in her face filled her with an immediate and petulant fury that sent her marching around the back of the house. She had no time to notice the dense, dark foliage pressing in around her as she headed for the kitchen door and reached for the rusting handle. This time, there was no accompanying groan from the hinges and she entered stealthily. In no time at all she was standing in the open doorway to the lounge, staring at Vera's back as, hands protectively cradling her belly, she hid behind the curtain and peered out into the front yard – no doubt looking for signs of her retreat thought Joan to herself with a faint (but pitying) half-smile.

 

“When were you going to tell me, Vera?”

 Vera shrieked in fear and alarm, her shock sublimating to anger as she turned and rushed across the room, flinging herself at Joan and forcing her backwards with a barrage of blows to her chest and shoulders. “No, no, no, no, NO! Out! _Get out_!” she shouted and shoved Joan towards the front door.

“No, I don’t think I will,” replied Joan mildly and sidestepped Vera's attack, causing her to stumble under the impetus of her flailing arms. Vera turned on her and, in her face, Joan could see every emotion the heartsick woman had ever felt for her – admiration and envy, adoration, gratitude, fear and lust, persistent loneliness and uncertainty, despair, anger, hate and now loathing – and Joan was filled with a guilty pride at having pushed this flawed creature to breaking point. But also, she was filled with what could only be called self-reproach at inadvertently causing Vera's current reproductive predicament. The child was innocent but she’d set it up for a life of misery with a mother who was doomed to repeat the sins of its grandmother.

 

“Suit yourself,” muttered Vera tightly from between gritted teeth, and pushed roughly past Joan, pausing briefly to stuff her bare feet into a pair of grubby looking trainers. Joan grimaced in distaste at the microbial contamination she was exposing herself to.

“I assume it’s Jake's?” Joan asked sweetly. “After all, it can’t be mine…” she grinned slyly as Vera stiffened. “But given all that he’s put you through, I’m surprised that you’ve chosen to keep it.” Vera missed the maliciously quirked eyebrow as she stormed off to the kitchen. “But then,” Joan continued viciously, following Vera down the hallway, “I suppose that this is the only way you’ll ever have someone who truly loves you, isn’t it?” She leaned against the doorframe as Vera rummaged savagely in her handbag and dragged out an unnecessarily large bunch of keys (must be missing Wentworth thought Joan and barely managed to suppress a cruel snicker) before yanking open the back door. “And what does the proud father have to say about it all, hmm?” she called after Vera as she crossed the threshold.

The house shook as the door slammed and rattled in its frame, and Vera stared at Joan through the dirty glass with tear bright eyes as she battled to keep her expression from crumpling. As the key twisted in the lock, Joan offered her a slow smile of victory and, with one last look of burning resentment, Vera turned and all but ran to the carport.

 

As much as it amused Joan to see Vera hurting, inflicting pain and distress hadn’t been the reason for her visit today. A chance sighting of Vera the previous day had shaken Joan profoundly. There was no mistaking her ‘condition’, and judging by her size there was no mistaking who the father was either, and Joan had been forced to swallow a wave of nausea at what she had done. The horrible prospect of _him_ worming his way back into Vera's life had kept her awake most of the night: she’d needed to know Vera's intentions.

 

*****

 

“Oh, please tell me you're joking, Joan!” Maggie sat down heavily and pinched the bridge of her nose in exasperation, then spreading her fingers she raked them through her hair as she stared down at Joan who knelt at her feet like a supplicant. Her eyes and lips narrowed in disbelief, and Joan hung her head in shame and embarrassment. “You went to see Vera. After everything that’s happened. What possible reason could you have for wanting to see her again? Please tell me because I’m dying to know…”

“I, I…” she faltered and picked at her thumbnail. There was no way she could tell Maggie the truth. She wouldn’t understand. “I don’t know,” she only half lied. “I needed to speak to her.”

“No, you didn’t!” Maggie replied sharply. “There’s no earthly reason why you should. What’s wrong with you, Joan? Do you want to destroy yourself?”

Joan laid her head in Maggie's lap. “She hates me, Maggie,” she lamented forlornly in a little girl whisper.

Ever so softly, Maggie began to stroke Joan's hair. “That’s because you're special,” she said quietly and felt Joan nestle closer.

Joan smiled sadly and replied, “Only to you.”

 

*****

 

Consciousness surprised her with a muffled shout. Heart racing and sweat sheened, she stared groggily into the dark until she was sure that she was awake. Something was off (but what?) and she listened intently for whatever it was that must have woken her but there was nothing, not even the faintest hint of birdsong, yet still she felt unnerved and she rolled onto her back with a sigh that was half yawn, half shiver. The setting blood moon hung bloated and ominous outside the window, deepening her sense of foreboding and she sat up, scrubbing a hand over her face as she considered going downstairs and smoking one of Maggie's cigarettes whilst she tried to shake this unsettling feeling she had.

Maggie shifted under the quilt and she stretched out an arm, brushing Joan's hip with sleepy fingers. “You right?” she mumbled fuzzily.

“Something bad’s coming, Maggie. I can feel it.” She twisted her neck and stared down at Maggie, eyes wide and uneasy as she named the sensation crawling through her guts and brain. “Something awful’s gonna happen.”

“Shhh, don’t be daft, love.” Maggie stroked her hip in reassurance and wriggled closer. “You must’ve had a dream, s’all. G’back to sleep.”

Joan smiled and lay down again, cuddling into Maggie's comforting bulk as she snorted gently at her own dramatics. Of course, it was just a dream hangover, it had to be; but whatever she was dreaming about tonight (she never remembered a single thing from them) couldn’t have been pleasant. 

 

 

In another bed, in another part of the city, a lonely Vera awoke in a tangle of blankets, her dream clinging to her like a broken cobweb as she thrashed her way free, and lay there stroking her belly until the feeling of clammy panic subsided enough to get her bearings. The ghost of her once-lover’s pale face and gleaming crowns appeared, unwelcome and tormenting, behind her eyelids and the baby kicked violently making Vera wince.

It’s the hormones, she told herself and shuffled to the cold side of the bed, nothing to do with Joan; but at the mere thought of her name, Vera felt the tug of morning sickness, and she swallowed drily.

She’d been arguing with Joan in her dream. She’d been driving too, she remembered; tearing through unfamiliar streets in a strange car, not knowing where she was going; and then she’d been out and struggling to run, trying to reach a door that never grew any closer, wading through thick, cloying darkness as she searched for sanctuary from a nameless dread – a dread that had followed her into the waking world, its grimy touch making her want to check under the bed again to make sure that there was still no monster lying in wait for her. Because she knew that there really were monsters out there, ready to tear her apart without a second thought…

 

 


End file.
